


Claim

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Branding, Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 22:55:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3335816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ori receives his lover’s brand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Claim

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “one DoYC branding another” prompt on [The Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/11476.html?thread=23116756#t23116756).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Ori blows out the last candle as he moves through the dark, the firelight licking at the edges of Dwalin’s side. Orange and warm, the air is thick with the cracks and scents of the fire. Ori slips the candleholder onto the same table that bears the black metal rod, its end thrust into the center of the flames. Honestly, Ori thought it would be scarier than it is. He thought he’d shake and tremble, get cold feet and hesitate, but instead, he’s relentlessly _sure_. He’s wanted it long enough. He’s thought of it long enough. Dwalin’s eyes are boring holes into his being. 

Dwalin’s large hands fall to Ori’s hips, and Ori lets himself be lifted into the air. His knees part, and he’s made to straddle Dwalin’s lap, the old, wooden chair creaking below their weight. Once, Dwalin’s said, everything in Erebor was made of stone and precious metals, but in the wake of rebuilding, remnants from men and elves must do. The Blue Mountains were never so grand. Ori is content in his little, time beaten quarters, but he’ll be happier when he bears Dwalin’s mark and shares Dwalin’s rooms, knowing he’ll never be alone. 

They’re in the smithery now. One of the small rooms, tucked way at the end, where no one might happen in on a sacred ceremony. Ori places his hands on Dwalin’s shoulders and ducks to pres a firm, chaste kiss to Dwalin’s forehead. He can feel Dwalin shiver beneath him. Dwalin breathes, again, “You’re sure...?”

Ori says, “I’m sure.” When he looks at Dwalin’s face, holds Dwalin’s broad shoulders, rocks his hips into Dwalin’s warm body, Ori knows that this is the place for him. Dwalin must know, too, but he’s kind beneath all the gruffness, and he judges Ori’s sincerity. 

He hooks one finger beneath Ori’s chin, threading through the scruff of Ori’s short beard, and pulls him close enough to peck his lips. It takes considerable effort for Ori not to linger.

There’s a small bottle of gel on the side table that Dwalin reaches for. Once, it was readily available to dwarves: the culture of Erebor was thick and rich. But this they received from the elves. Ori asked it of Elrond, just in case, after a hint from Gandalf, and Dwalin, however much he may distrust elves, respects Dwarven ways too much to let the tincture go to waste. It’s necessary for the ceremony, because Ori, despite all their journey and hardships, is still more scribe than warrior. He knows that if he chose to go without the gel, Dwalin wouldn’t perform his end. 

Instead, Dwalin uncorks the bottle and pours an ample amount of the clear liquid into his palm. Ori begins to work his fingers down the buttons of his shirt, until he can pull it open enough to expose his chest, his breast laid bare for his lover. There’s a flash of hunger in Dwalin’s eyes, like there always is when Ori strips for him. But then he’s moving on, and he swipes the gel liberally across Ori’s skin. 

It tingles, at first. It feels strange, sweet and chiming, even, if such a thing could have taste and sound on mere application. The magic of the elves, he supposes, pleased, at least, that it isn’t impotent. As much as he’d like to feel the raw press of Dwalin’s fire into his flesh, he knows he couldn’t stand the pain enough to be properly carved into. 

By the time the gel is spread evenly across him, Ori’s breathing hard. The anticipation is both glorious and sinister. His skin’s growing numb beneath the cool liquid, the little hairs slicked down and the one-sided heat of the fire dancing around the edges. He keeps his fingers fisted in his shirt, holding it wide. Dwalin reaches across him, hand clasping around the insolated end of the rod.

The other end is drawn out of the fire, the metal scorched red. It’s a handsome, boldly simple insignia that marks the possession of _Dwalin_ , and it’s about to be seared into Ori’s flesh.

Ori hangs his head in submission, with his chest thrust forward and his thighs clamped tight around Dwalin’s. Dwalin asks, slow and surreal, “Will you take my mark, Ori?”

Ori nods too vigorously. He licks his lips and answers, traditionally, “I will, Dwalin.” Then he peaks up through his straight-cut bangs to see the _adoration_ in Dwalin’s eyes. The rod comes closer, the end twisting to be upright. It hovers before Ori’s body, right in the middle of his breast, beneath the dip of his collarbone. He can only hope he’ll be able to feel it every time he breathes. 

Then it’s against him, and Ori wants to gasp. He doesn’t dare, of course. Moving at all could jar it, and he wants his mark to be sharp and crisp. But it _hurts_. Not nearly as much as it should, but it still does; he can feel the sharp sting and the stern press of it. Perhaps the worst of it is the stench of his own burning flesh. It makes a grotesque hissing noise, crackling around all the edges. 

Ori holds his breath. He grows dizzy too quickly, and his neck arches back, eyes sliding to the ceiling, mouth open wide as he struggles. It seems to take a small eternity to finish, but he keeps his body as still as he can throughout, and he tolerates the pain and the ache and the strange prickling feeling the gel plunges into him. When the brand pulls back from him, he deflates, his exhale mixed with a sort of cry. 

He hears more than sees the rod draped back along the table. Dwalin’s familiar touch tucks some of his disheveled hair back behind his ears, and he’s given a hard peck to his temple that makes him whimper and squirm. 

“It’s done,” Dwalin murmurs. Ori mewls, giddy with want. 

He pushes back enough to look down his own chest. It’s large and maroon-black, flat between patches of glistening gel. He’ll need a mirror in better lighting than this to appreciate it property, but for now, he sighs, “It’s _beautiful._ ”

“You’re beautiful,” Dwalin insists. He kisses Ori again, this time on the lips, though only briefly, because Ori shivers and pulls away, still needing to regain his breath. Dwalin’s thick fingers press against him and slowly trace the design. It gives Ori a sharp sting that he doesn’t dare admit, because he wouldn’t have it stop. He enjoys too much the way Dwalin looks at him in such reverence, absently outlining the mark of his own ownership. He practically growls, “I’ll treasure you all of my life.”

“I know you will.”

Finally, Ori lets go of his tunic’s sides, because he _needs_ to hold onto Dwalin. He wraps his arms around Dwalin’s neck, pulling forward.

Dwalin kisses him fiercely, erupting into teeth and tongue, and picks him up to carry him away from the fire. The real adventure has only just begun.


End file.
